


Are We Forgiven

by AJfanfic



Series: Snow and Dirty Rain [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 1970s, Anti-Cop, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, BAMF Jaskier, Butch Geralt, F/F, Fem!Geralt - Freeform, Fem!Jaskier, Femme Jaskier, Geraskier Week, I recommend listening to Pink In The Night, Protection, Queer Bars, Reincarnation, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Tenderness, and reading Stone Butch Blues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: She sings on Friday nights, and Geralt makes a point of being there ten minutes before she goes on every week. Buttercup. She's as femme as they come, but there's a "don't fuck with me" rasp to her voice and an "I'll gut you if you try anything" glint in her eyes.Geralt's a butch factory worker and Jaskier is a singer who does what she needs to to make ends meet, and they were build to fit together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Snow and Dirty Rain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633876
Comments: 28
Kudos: 200





	Are We Forgiven

_We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it._

_\- Richard Siken, "Snow and Dirty Rain"_

She sings on Friday nights, and Geralt makes a point of being there ten minutes before she goes on every week. Long enough to get a beer and settle down at her table in the corner, long enough she doesn't look like she was waiting. Buttercup. It's her stage name, and Geralt pretends to not know it's what they call her on the street, too. She's as femme as they come, but there's a _don't fuck with me_ rasp to her voice and an _I'll gut you if you try anything_ glint in her eyes.

She walks on stage, like she does every Friday night, with her long chestnut hair pulled up, dress shimmering, heels high enough to make her taller than Geralt. She's got an old guitar in her hands, flowered strap over her shoulder. Its colors are faded and there are pulls in the embroidery. It doesn't match her outfit at all, and yet it belongs perfectly in her hands, like it's been there for ages and will be for ages more. Their eyes meet, and Buttercup smiles, sweet and a little bit tired. Geralt raises her glass in salute. They're friends, if few shared drinks and mostly one-sided conversations were enough to call them that.

"I wrote this a few nights ago, I'm sure you'll let me know what you think," she says, flirtatious to hide the uncertainty Geralt can just barely see in her eyes. She's never played her own work before, always covers.

Buttercup's voice is milk and honey and the beauty of it isn't enough to hide the bitterness of her words. There's a power to it, a strength her thin body conceals revealed in the assurance with which she plays.

"I cannot find the words to keep you, I cannot find the words to keep you." Geralt finds she's leaning forward in her seat, wanting to be closer, wanting to feel the heat of that passion.

"Can’t we just talk about this tomorrow?" Buttercup's voice breaks on the last word. It's just her on stage, a woman who's barely old enough to drink at the bars she performs in, but Geralt can hear the whole band. She wants to hear her with a whole band, a whole album of her words.

The sirens are right but so very wrong as she trails off, "New York torch," on her lips.

Then Buttercup’s gone, fleeing offstage and Geralt is heading for the back door, and there are cops outside. She’s glad she parked Roach across the street. Geralt slips outside and pulls her jacket tight against the rain. Wind roars in her ears as the storm breaks around her. It almost covers the shout from the alley next to where she parked her bike. Geralt hesitates at the edge of the light of a street lamp. The skin of her knuckles has only just scabbed over, and the last thing she needs is another night in jail. The cry comes again, and she knows that voice. Geralt steps out of the light.

There’s a man, blue shirt and billy club on his belt. He’s pressing a woman against the wall, her face against it, chestnut hair catching on the rough brick as she struggles. Buttercup snaps her head back, catching the man in the nose. Geralt takes the opening she’s made before either of them know she’s there. She wraps her arm around his neck and drags him off Buttercup. Geralt catches the back of his head with her other hand, pressing him into the hold. The man struggles for a moment, nails digging into her arm. He throws an elbow back at her head. They’re of a height, and it catches her cheek glancingly. Geralt grits her teeth and tightens her hold. After a moment, he stops struggling and falls limp. She drops him quickly, not needing to add “inflicting permanent brain damage to a cop” to her list of infractions.

Buttercup is still standing against the wall, her eyes wide.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks gruffly. _Are you terrified of me now?_

“I should be asking you that.” She tilts her head. “How did you learn to do that so elegantly?”

Geralt’s not sure what to say to that. Elegant? Her?

“Sorry, I should be thanking you.” Buttercup looks down at her feet.

“No, I—Do you need a ride?”

She smiles. “Sure.”

Geralt spins on her heel and peers out of the alley. It seems the cops are busy arresting queers back at the club, so she steps back into the light. Roach groans to life under her. Buttercup presses tight against her back as she pulls out, arms wrapped around her waist. Geralt can feel how warm she is through the leather of her jacket, little puffs of breath against her neck. They’re headed to the center of town, almost by default, before Geralt realizes she doesn’t know where she lives.

“Buttercup—”

“No!” She shouts back over the wind and the rumble of the engine.

“No?”

“It’s not my name.”

“What should I call you?”

“Jaskier.” The word only just makes it to Geralt, and it feels like a gift that it does. “My place is just down there.”

Jaskier leads her around the back of an old white-sided building, up rickety steps and into a second-floor apartment. It’s simply furnished, a small table in the center of the room and a couch that looks like it’s from goodwill pushed under the only window. Doors on either side of it lead, presumably, to a bedroom and a bathroom. A little kitchenette claims the open corner. It feels almost like a hotel room, even fewer personal touches than Geralt herself has. It feels like Jaskier doesn’t plan on staying long. She steps out of her heels as soon as she’s inside, leaving them where they fall. Jaskier pushes Geralt into a chair.

“Wait right there, I’m going to find you an ice pack.” Geralt wants to protest that she doesn’t need it, she didn’t mean to impose, but Jaskier vanishes through the door on the left before she can. She’s back in a heartbeat, a towel and a tube of vaseline in her hands. She leaves it on the table, humming to herself as she pulls a bag of ice from the fridge and wraps it in the towel. Geralt doesn’t recognize the song.

“Here,” Jaskier drags a chair around to sit opposite her. She runs her thumb lightly over the purpling bruise under Geralt’s eye. When she replaces it with the ice, Geralt sighs. Jaskier takes her hand, saying “Hold this for me?” as she presses it to take her place on the ice. Geralt isn’t sure how long she’s supposed to sit here. How long can you sit in someone’s kitchen without making small talk before it gets rude?

Jaskier squeezes some vaseline on her fingers and holds out her hand.

“What?” _She does know that won’t help a bruise, doesn’t she?_

“You knuckles. I noticed on the ride.”

Geralt gives her her hand. She barely feels her touch as she spreads it across the scabs, one finger at a time. It’s just vaseline, but it feels like more as her gentle touch eases the ache in her bruised knuckles. Geralt really needs to say something.

"I feel like I’ve known you all my life."

Not that. _Why did I say that?_

"Maybe it's destiny." She kisses her cheek, light and sweet. "Stay the night?" Jaskier smiles at Geralt's hesitance. "Just to sleep."

"Okay."

She pulls her up and leads her through the door at the back of the kitchen. The bedroom isn’t much more elaborate, but Geralt feels like she left the world behind when she crossed the threshold. Things are softer here, in the pink light of a scarf covered lamp, rounding her hard edges. Geralt keeps her eyes on the walls while Jaskier changes. Silk sliding against skin sounds like vulnerability, and Geralt feels too big, too harsh, too much of the factory floor clinging to her skin to bring it into this place. There's a crack in the paint. It starts in the corner by the window and spiders across the wall.

"Come here." Jaskier is wearing a t-shirt that falls to her knees. Geralt goes. She sits beside her on the bed, and Jaskier hands her a hair tie. "Braid it for me?"

"Okay." She is so very careful as she divides her hair into three. It catches on her calloused fingers and she wants to apologize, but Jaskier hums in quiet pleasure and she doesn't want to break the moment. Her hair is so very soft. One, two, three. Geralt lets the rhythm, the smell of rose, the trust, settle her. She ties it off and runs her hand along the braid, from Jaskier's nape to between her shoulder blades.

"Thank you," Jaskier says, smile gentle. _Thank you_ , Geralt feels she should reply, but the words stick in her throat. Jaskier curls up beneath the blankets and pats the spot beside her expectantly. Geralt unties her boots. She hesitates before undoing her belt and stepping from her pants as well. They're rough and dirty, she doesn't want to scratch Jaskier. She lays down next to her, inches endless between them. Jaskier rolls onto her side and pressed back against her. She catches her hand and interlaces their fingers across his stomach. Geralt a tension she hadn't known she was carrying falls away from her. Geralt's body shelters hers, and now laying between her and the door like she's done it a million times, she can believe that Jaskier sees her as protection.

Geralt wakes to brilliantly blue eyes and their hands still interwoven between them.

"Good morning." Jaskier's hair has come loose and wispy strands frame her face. There's a scrape across her nose and her eyes still look tired, but pleased and soft in the morning light creeping in around the drapes.

Geralt asks quickly before she can lose her nerve. "Can I take you dancing?"

"I'd love that, baby."

**Author's Note:**

> The song Jaskier sings is "New York Torch Song" by Mr. Batey's band, The Amazing Devil. They're very worth listening to.
> 
> There's going to be more in the series, but I can't commit to a consistent schedule until my other wip is done so I hope you can be patient!


End file.
